Run
by JasNutter
Summary: Sherlock, escaping from a crippling heart break, runs straight into a vampires nest and naturally, into the Winchesters. Coincidence or otherwise, things play out rather...not naturally.
1. Evading Senses

The darkness does strange things to the mind, regardless of whose mind it happened to be. The silence echoed louder, the fear ran deeper, and the unfamiliar was even more so. Sherlock Holmes, human as he was, was no exception. The creature trailing him, decidedly _not_ human, was certainly one.

So Sherlock Holmes, man of cold logic and sharp reason, scurried as silently as he could towards light, for common sense had failed him – the attacker shouldn't be able to see him in the dark either. But the said attacker, against all odds, _could _and did, and Sherlock had never before experienced such a chilling fear grip his spine and momentarily paralyze him while the damned creature snarled and sprung towards him, baring its razor sharp, animal-like teeth, eyes glowing a frightening, incandescent red.

Pushing down the terror down to the pit of his stomach where it writhed vaguely, Sherlock had whipped out his hand knife and lashed – a weak defense, he had thought desperately at the moment and then, to his utter astonishment, had been proven wrong once again as the knife slashed through one pale hand and the skin _burned_, as though Sherlock had lashed at him with fire. Blinking rapidly in shock as the creature growled and recoiled, Sherlock had lunged again, catching the thing in the heart and diving the knife in while screams and hisses bounced off the concrete.

Adrenaline mixing with the confusion, eyes wide and breath coming out in heavy bursts, his ripped silk shirt clinging to his sweaty back, he had sprung back, drenched in warm blood, and sprinted through the alley, around a corner and towards a distant streetlight.

_What was it? _

The thing about darkness is the sheer lack of stimuli, Sherlock knew, that drove the mind into assumption without proof. The lack of stimuli that caused the unknown and the unknown that caused the fear. Take one sense away, and dread rises like hot air and shrouds reason. When Sherlock couldn't see, he listened.

Unfortunately, he didn't hear the footsteps advance until it was too late.

He let out a yell of panic and jerked backwards, stumbling in his haste and the attacker, wound sealed and knife in hand, dark red shirt tainted an even darker red with blood, advanced, eyes still glowing and face all the more fearsome under the dim light overhead.

_How? _

He made a move to turn around and run, but the next thing he knew, he was flying across the street, air rushing past him. He hit a wall very forcefully with an agonizing thud. Winded, he crumpled down, groaning and gasping for breath when a rough kick caught him in the guts and he was flung back, pain flaring across his injured body. He stiffened, eyes squeezing shut as he a felt hot, smelly breath on his face.

_I'm going to die. _

"Hey!" he heard a rough voice yell and heavy footsteps rushed towards him. "You bastard!" A woosh of air and a sickening swiping noise followed, and he almost inhaled the warm liquid that came splattering across his face (_blood)_. A crack issued from somewhere behind him and it strangely sounded like a skull hitting the ground. Sherlock shuddered, eyes still closed against the pain and groaned. A pair of strong, yet strangely gentle hands closed around his arms and he was being maneuvered up.

"Hey." A scent of gun oil, soap and cologne evaded his senses and he opened his eyes blearily, blinking away the blood. A young man was crouched over him; brown hair cut short, green eyes roving over him in concern. "You okay?"

_'Hunts for a living', _was the last thing Sherlock thought before he fell into blackness.

* * *

_Three months earlier._

"Sherlock", John Watson's excitement was palpable, his voice quivering and steps hurried. "Sherlock, Mary asked me to move in with her!"

The pipette had been dropped, fingers stiff and mind numb.

"What?" Sherlock's insides felt rather icy.

"I'm moving in with Mary", he said, eyes bright and face lighted, the tired lines that had been present that very morning nowhere to be seen. Sherlock felt his throat tighten and burn at John's excitement.

"You're moving out?" He said as he struggled to remain impassive. The corners of his eyes were prickling.

John literally bounced up to him and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him into an awkward hug. He smelled of biscuits and tea and damp wool. _John. _

Sherlock fought not to cry.

It wasn't as though he hadn't known this was coming – it was inevitable. But its arrival caught him like a blow to the gut anyway and Sherlock felt slightly dizzy and nauseated. He blinked.

_John's leaving. _

The short army doctor he had been so deeply enamored with for the past three years was now, having let go of him, skipping around the room with unbridled joy, rapidly talking about something Sherlock couldn't hear for all the blood pounding in his ears and all the cotton that seemed to fill his head.

"Don't", he croaked, and grimaced at how weak he sounded. "Don't go."

He dared look up from his experiment scattered across the desk at his friend after a moment of tense silence. John stood frozen in the middle of the living room, news papers scattered around him, the ever ginning skull staring at him from the mantle. He was looking at Sherlock with immense worry.

"Oh Sherlock", He sighed and approached him. Sherlock eyed him warily, wondering what he would do. Wondering if he _knew_. John placed to comforting hands on his arms, the heat of his palms moving through the silk and into Sherlock's skin. Sherlock shuddered and fought not to lean in to the doctor's kind warmth.

"I'm not leaving you, Sherlock", John said, his voice low, placating, soft gaze trying to caress his friend's anxiety away. "I'll still visit. I'll come to cases with you. You won't even know I'm gone."

_I always know when you're gone. _

Two days later John left. Sherlock didn't see him for a week.

* * *

_So I had a random crossover idea and **could not** get it out of my head and so here it is. I'm going to write it down. And hope you enjoy it as much as I do. _

_Please please please leave comments or suggestions or point out if there are mistakes still that I didn't come across. Like it? Didn't like it? Review! _


	2. Betraying Emotions

His head was swimming when he came to, blinking up at a spotted, graying, white ceiling. He was lying on a bed, a vague scent of the familiar cologne and oil emanating from the sheets, and was bare except for his underpants. The room had that musty smell of neglect – the same kind of odor that hung permanently around the motel he'd been living in for the past three days.

_His motel room. On his bed. _

His rescuer sat across the small room at a small plastic table, his jacket draped across the back of his chair, facing the drawn shades. A laptop sat open before him and he was absentmindedly eating greasy fries from a plastic container. Sherlock eyed the dagger, recently cleaned, that lay by his side and a duffle bag at one corner of the room.

_Drifter. _

"You're going to develop serious cardiac problem if you go on like that."

The man started in his seat, and whipped around to look at him, hand automatically moving to the dagger. Sherlock pushed himself up and grimaced; his ribs were beginning to bruise.

"Alright?" he asked, and Sherlock was faintly amused at the concern displayed, even though he happened to be holding a weapon meant for serious harm. He swung his legs off the hard mattress and sat up.

He was only a few years older than himself, Sherlock observed, may be two years at most, but direly burdened, going by the very slight hint of grey around his temples. A shadow of stubble was present on his chiseled face along with the shadow under his eyes that comes from about three hours of sleep every night. He was stressed and on a job of sorts, but the job itself was not the root of the strain. From the distinct lines between his brows and chapped lips pulled slightly down in an upset frown, Sherlock could tell it was personal.

_Probably a friend, most possibly family_.

He stood in a defensive posture, as though waiting for Sherlock to jump up and attack him, yet not certain that he would, a posture Sherlock associated with John when they faced a possible adversary.

The thought made his chest ache.

"I'm not going to attack you", his rich baritone seemed to fill the strangely empty room. "If anything, I should thank you?"

The man cocked his head to the left, but didn't stand down. "Yeah, probably."

"Where's your partner?" Sherlock asked, and watched his eyes narrow for a second. The pained lines, oh so discrete, were suddenly more conspicuous. _Brother. _

"How do you know?" He asked urgently, fist tightening around the threatening dagger.

"Why else would you take a room with two beds? And both have been slept on. That one had a duffle bag similar to yours on it, but it's gone now. For a day, may be, seeing how the sheets have smoothened. You're obviously distressed, but it's not just because of the job. Probably because your brother left? Disagreement?"

He watched him grit his teeth and shift. "Have you been stalking us or what?"

"I've barely been here for three days. I don't even know what your name is."Sherlock scoffed. "You've been scouring this area. Why?"

"You _have _been stalking me. What do you want?"

Sherlock sighed in annoyance and rolled his eyes heavenwards. _So dull_.

"I have _not_ been stalking you. I can tell from the consistency of the pattern of mud on your shoes. What was that thing that attacked me?"

"Yeah right, consistency my ass. How about you tell me what you want, cheekbones, so we can get this over with and you can return to your tea and crumpets."

Fighting down a surge of irritation at the man's blatant idiocy, Sherlock leaned back on the bed on his palms, hoping for what was a non-threatening posture, trying to ease the dull pain coursing through his upper body. "I don't stalk, I deduce. I observe – a concept you mindless fools can seem to grasp."

"You calling _me_ a fool?"

"Yes, yes, of course you are. I'm an Englishman, obviously never been here before and obviously lost. I don't have a car or any money, and I've been here for exactly three days and I clearly have no idea who you are. Everything I know about you, I know from what I see."

"You are one arrogant son of a bitch, aren't you", he said, and Sherlock frowned at his crudity. "What do you know about me?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and focused, ready to fire out rapid deductions. Oh, how he had missed this.

"You hunt for a living – what and why, I don't know, but it serves a purpose and you're used to saving the injured, judging by the way you've rid me of clothing, cleaned me and checked for injury. You tend to my wounds, but you're suspicious anyway – so you trust no one, which suggest someone or something, I don't know what or why, is after you. You're running. You lost your parents, possibly when you were very young, or were neglected; there wouldn't be that deep attachment otherwise. You feel like he's failed you. "

"You've showered and groomed fairly enough to look decent, but you've slept in those clothes, which suggest you don't carry around much, and you probably move around far too much. That's the second container of junk food you've consumed today, going by the grease wiped on your jeans, and that's your third coffee, as the stains on your shirt are progressively fresher – but you need it because you aren't sleeping. Also, speaking of stains, a bit of blood from that creature is still on your jacket sleeve, but you haven't cleaned it out, suggesting you're comfortable with blood. You've been doing this for a while."

Sherlock took a breath and enjoyed the look of amazement on the man's face. The dagger had gone slack in his hand, his defensive bearing had deflated. "_Fuck", _he breathed.

"The laptop is angled away from my vantage point and your body was carefully shielding it. It was slammed shut as soon as you heard me speak, that leads me to believe you were probably indulging in pornography – so crass, why do people do that? There are no hints of arousal so your mind was obviously elsewhere, probably on the thing you saved me from. You've spent one night alone in here, judging by the faint smell of your semen still on the sheets –"

"Alright!" The man was grimacing and shifting uncomfortably. "You're some sort of genius, I get it. What's your name?"

He smirked. "Sherlock Holmes."

The man stared. "That's a weird-ass name."

Sherlock opened his mouth for a haughty retort but it was being waved off before he could start.

"D'you wanna borrow some clothes and head – where ever you're staying at?"

Suddenly, Sherlock, a six-foot tall being of retorts and sass, was uncertain. He didn't have money, he didn't have clothes. He was in a foreign country with no possessions whatsoever except the black boxers he was so scantily clad in, in a man's motel room – a man who had just saved his life from _something _that exceeded all reasoning and he – for the life of him – couldn't figure out what it was. A sudden rush of fear came hurtling back and Sherlock felt numb, reflexively curling into himself, his bare legs drawn up to his bare chest, arms around his bare knees. He had no idea what was out there.

"Hey", Sherlock heard him set down the dagger and walk forward with caution, as though he were a wounded wild animal in danger of lashing out violently. "You okay?"

"What was that?" His voice sounded strange to himself, vulnerable and raw, and he hated himself for it. He gritted his teeth.

He listened to the man shuffle uneasily.

"Look, you wouldn't believe me if I –"

"_What was it?" _he repeated, drawing into himself more tightly. "_What?!"_

"It was a vampire, okay? Dude, maybe – ",

The man broke off as Sherlock succumbed to violent shudders, his mind racing, trying to make sense of what had happened, what it had seen, and failing. He swallowed desperately, trying to control himself.

"Dude?" A warm, calloused hand came to rest hesitantly on his clammy skin. Sherlock vaguely registered he was sweating. He swallowed again and cleared his throat. And cleared it again.

"Look, man", the voice was closer now. "I know you're spooked, these things...they happen. Hey, just – just breathe, okay?"

There was a vague stirring of annoyance – Sherlock knew what he had to do, but mostly that stirred was a strange sense of comfort, as though it were radiating through the stranger's hand and diffusing into his body. He thought of John, and of Baskerville.

Rapidly blinking back the tears betraying his body and suddenly threatening to escape, Sherlock shuddered once more and clenched his jaw together, looking up at the face of his savior hovering above his, tired face marred with a frown of worry. Worry for him.

_Why? _

"You can sleep here tonight, okay?" His voice, emerging from the behind slightly uneasy air of being under Sherlock's penetrating scrutiny, was kind. "Get yourself sorted out in the morning."

He nodded jerkily, feeling rather ashamed and caught between wanting to insult the bizarrely generous man for being so infuriatingly considerate, and wanting to thank him. He dimly noticed being shoved gently down to his back and the sheets, still drenched in the essence of the man, being tucked around him. He huffed out a few uneven breaths, fighting the weight that had settled on his chest and sank into the pillow, eyes fluttering shut.

A chuckle drifted from somewhere above him and a hand came to pat his cheek.

"Sleep well, pretty boy".

Sherlock bristled and turned angrily, drawing the sheets around him.

`He would email Mycroft in the morning and get himself out of whatever form of hell this was meant to be.

* * *

_Please please please review. Please._


	3. Hunt

_Two months earlier _

Light rain pattered endlessly against window panes, the noise blending with the low hum of the telly turned almost all the way down, its flickering beam lighting the otherwise darkened room and bouncing off the walls. Musty air hung in heavy staleness and a very thin film of dust rested lightly across the furniture and over the clutter in a perfect imitation of the very thin man that rested on the couch, barely dressed, barely fed and barely conscious.

Fingers steeped under his chin, body boneless and relaxed, his mind swirled with images and he meandered further in languorous exploration, repainting here, deleting there. The soft murmur of the television worked wonders to omit the irritating buzz of silence, and Sherlock had taken to leaving it on often.

"Pass me my phone." He whispered into the emptiness, emerging lazily. His eyes fluttered open briefly and, almost immediately, they were shuttered once more.

"My phone, please."

The drizzle drummed a sad beat.

He sank back in.

Ten minutes later, (or hours, or days, who knew with time – time was boring), heavy feet were bounding up the stairs and Sherlock surfaced once more, counting…_fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Pause. _The door flew open.

"I said, pass me my phone."

John stood, hair mussed and dotted with a few pearly droplets, his coat collar damped, squinting into the dimness.

"Do you ever open the windows? My god, this place."

He walked in as though he lived there still; hanging up the new coat and the new scarf and treading through the dust that suddenly rose, as Sherlock did, and swayed about. He dressed differently – gone was the hideous jumper; tailored pants replaced the jeans. One month into domesticity and she was laying out his clothes.

He had never looked more handsome.

"Had lunch with her parents – I'm not pussy whipped quite yet", John answered his thoughts, reading them as though they were boldly flashing across his forehead, while throwing open the windows. The draft swept in, stirring the dust into a dance. "You could take up dusting, you know, once in a while", he continued, passing Sherlock the phone that lay on the coffee table, barely four inches away from Sherlock's limply hanging hand. Their fingers brushed as he did so, sending tingles waltzing up Sherlock arm.

Sherlock lowered, back against the arm, and pretended to fire off a text. John fell into his arm chair – that arm chair that would always be his, even after he wrapped himself up snugly in family life and forgot about this strange friend – and stretched out his legs, crossing one ankle over the other, idly eying the blaring screen. The fading light of weeping London held his face in a gentle caress, his skin glowing softly, deep blue eyes sparkling like orbs of sapphire. Sherlock didn't realize he was staring until they came to meet his own. John held his gaze fondly; petal lips curved oh so slightly upwards in a smile. A bubble of warmth expanded in Sherlock's chest and threatened to pop .His stomach did a funny little somersault.

They hadn't seen each other in three weeks, and that time they had, it was in passing – a wave across the street, a murderer gaining on Sherlock's back and Mary hanging off John's arm. Hungry eyes, deprived for so long, roved over the beloved face, drinking in with wonder at how rested he looked – how luminously content.

"You've lost weight", said he, propping an elbow on an arm. "Your ribs will break free one of these days."

"You've gained some", Sherlock replied easily, "two and a half pounds, to be exact."

"Two", he argued and his sudden laugh killed Sherlock's retort at his throat. "I'll hit the gym soon as I get out of these," he gestured towards his attire.

"Can't see why that's necessary", Sherlock said, relieved at how airy he sounded, for John's laughing face had sent his intestines into series of flips. "It's not like you need to keep up good-looks any longer, and it's not like you join me on cases either."

"Well I, unlike you, haven't got a blatant disregard for my health. And I'm not married – can't afford a massive gut just yet", he said as his eyes glittered, crinkling at the corners.

"Speaking of that", he leaned forward conspiratorially and reached into his jacket, pulling out a small, black, velvet box. Sherlock's guts plummeted.

_Oh no no no no please not yet, no. _

He flipped the lid open, displaying a modest ring, demure but beautiful all the same against the black, just as Mary was. Sherlock felt as though his heart might burst and bleed. His breath hitched, and John took it as awe.

"She'll say yes", Sherlock swallowed and rasped, and John took it as encouragement, as a comfort for his hint of insecurity, when it was merely just observation.

Sherlock would never understand how John saw through him as though he were made of glass, and didn't see what mattered. He would never understand his inability to make John see what mattered.

They were all measly bags of meat with the ability for sentiment in the end. Sentiment – so liberating for some, so crippling for others.

John said they would celebrate and ordered Chinese and the food sat like stone in Sherlock's rebelling belly. He left as dusk broke through the clouds and blanketed the city, leaving Sherlock once more, heart heavy and hollow, aching for the part of John's love that would never be his.

A lone tear traveled down his cheek and dried there, his mood melancholy like the hues of the skies outside.

* * *

An abrupt, rumbling snore jerked him out of his sleep and he sat up, pushing the sheets off himself. Tendrils of morning light made their way in through the shades and illuminated the room in a gentle, yellow tinge. It was unbelievably warm already.

Sherlock cast a look at the still sleeping man who had shed his tasteless flannel and now donned merely a tight shirt. He slept with one arm thrown across his eyes, one hanging off the bed. Multitude of scars marred the skin of the strong forearm, all self inflicted.

Even in sleep, he was not peaceful.

Sherlock moved towards the cramped bathroom, bare feet slapping against the lilonium and then resting on cold tiles. The mirror was dirty and a cockroach scuttled past him and disappeared into a crack. He shed his boxers, stepped into the shower and thankfully the water wasn't cold. The scratches that blemished his chest and arms burned under the steam, his ribs ached and his eyes prickled.

_Vampires. _

Stepping out, dripping and smelling like the man outside, Sherlock made do with mouthwash, for the lack of a toothbrush, and dried himself off with the green towel that just hung there to his convenience, proceeding to make his way out of the steam in the nude to greet a shocked expression.

"Alright then –", the man mumbled, not shielding his eyes or looking away, but running a hand through mussed, brown hair, "Good morning to you too." He watched Sherlock wrap himself in the sheets and cleared his throat, pushing himself off the narrow bed and making towards the bathroom. Sherlock watched him go in placid enjoyment and spent the next two minutes, as the water started, hacking into his computer.

_Dean. _He was called Dean Winchester. Clipped and sturdy syllables, like the man himself. Dean. Other than his name, the computer gave away nothing, except for the fact that he seemed to have a strange penchant for bosomy females. _Bisexual, _he deduced.

_Unimportant. _

One quick short note to Mycroft later – ('_Got mugged, everything gone, need new documents. Send money, clothes and tickets. Hurry. And piss off.'), _Sherlock was digging through the world wide web, looking for anything relevant, and excavating nothing but drivel (_sparkling teenagers?)_. A hallucinatory drug, a concept he had played with over and over again, was impossible – the wounds and memory were real, still sharp and terrifying, having none of that hazy quality of drugged memory. Sherlock threw his head back and sighed in annoyance.

There was _no data! _

He waited impatiently, silently fuming, brain buzzing with desperate electrical energy. Finally the water ceased and Dean emerged, towel around hips, and Sherlock, eyeing the tattooed symbol on his glistening chest, made no delay.

"Tell me about Vampires."

He jumped and swore, a hand flying to make sure the towel was secure, and glared at Sherlock. He then shifted the glare to his laptop, as though it too had offensively startled him.

"That's password protected", he started, but Sherlock was already waving him off impatiently. "Tell me", he insisted, edgy. It was so tedious, getting information out of idiots. "Please", he added, as an afterthought, eyes trailing behind Dean, watching as he drew out fresh clothes – another flannel.

"It's too fucking early for this", he groaned, and Sherlock wanted to throw the table at him. "Can you not watch me while I dress? No?"

"Tell me."

"They just suck you dry alright – that's it. You chop their head off, the fuckers die." He pulled on boxers.

"That's what you hunt." It wasn't a question. "You go around the country killing these things. Family business, isn't it?" Sherlock could see now. "You were trained for this.

"Not just vampires", Dean replied with the air of one talking about their next big project at work, all the while zipping and buttoning. "Ghosts, demons, others, whatever."

Sherlock's mind whirled and shifted and he stared unseeingly at the still drawn shades. There was a lot to adjust, lots to renovate. "Tell me more. Don't be boring."

When he resurfaced from sifting through new information, trying to filter and utterly failing, Dean Winchester was sitting across from his, a hand waving sporadically right in front of his face, making him go slightly cross eyed. He scowled at it.

"Welcome back to earth, Sherlock, you weirdo", he said, grinning. His name was pronounced like 'Shur-lock'. His scowl deepened. Store bought pie, hamburgers, tea and coffee stood between them.

"Hey, don't gimme that look. I bought you tea, you being English and all."

Sherlock took a sip, grimaced, and set it down. "It's disgusting."

The other man chewed noisily and pushed the greasy, fat-laden food towards him, grinning while Sherlock cringed. "An email came for you while you were off in La La Land", he said, mouth full, gesturing towards the laptop. "What kinda name is Mycroft, anyway? Do any of you have normal names? Tom? Maybe a Harry?"

_Mycroft. _

Sherlock pulled the computer hastily through the array of junk, skimming over the relatively longer message and immediately wanted to rip his hair out in sheer frustration.

_'Dear Brother', _it said, '_Of course you did. The money and clothes are on their way, but perhaps you should stay away from England for the time being. Only as long as it takes, which is really not that much longer. I see you've made a friend. Stick with him for a while. Change might be good.' _

Sherlock groaned. Bloody Mycroft. _Of course, _he would do this. He slumped back in his chair and kicked the table's leg petulantly, making the food jump.

"Hey, watch it," Dean half yelled, hand shooting up to steady the wobbling cup. "Besides, you're getting the clothes and the money. Chill out in the states for a while. Nothing wrong with that."

"Oh boring, _boring", _Sherlock groaned, annoyance peaking past the summit. He pushed back the chair in a fit of pique and stomped heavily to the bed, throwing himself down on it, the amused look that followed him only serving to infuriating him further. He groaned again.

And then sat up in a sudden flurry of inspiration.

"Take me on one of your hunts!"

He washed down a burger with coffee and Sherlock thought that was rather strange, but wisely made no comment. They eyed each other for a while. Dean sighed.

"Of all the pretty damsels in distress I could have rescued, I just _had _to get the crazy one."

* * *

_Hi guys. Thanks so for the reviews. I'm sorry if the story is kind of moving too slowly, but I swear it is actually beginning now. Also, the story isn't exactly set in a Supernatural timeline, and isn't set in a Sherlock timeline either, so i'm going to be unfolding where Sam and John have gotten themselves to using the same some months prior thing I've got going. If you don't want that and have a different suggestion, please let me know. Thanks! Oh and, thoughts on the chapter? _


	4. Road Trip

Two sharp raps stirred Sherlock from the murky, impossible depth that was John Winchester's journal. He placed the old, leather bound book down gently upon the unmade bed, as though jostling it would make the horrid Shinji sketched onto paper come to life, and strode towards the door, sheets barely wrapped around his hips now, trailing behind him. He saw Dean unconsciously reach for a weapon out of the corner of his eye as he flung it open.

A duffle bag was handed to him, as expected, and with a quick curt nod the suited man turned sharply to the standard sleek, black car. Sherlock felt Dean at his shoulder, peering past him as they both watched him drive away at an unnecessary speed.

"What a suave little bitch."

Sherlock nudged his way past him, leaving him to shut the door. He set the bag next to the journal, reached into the front pockets and found the new documents with the bundle of cash: crisp and fresh.

"Your brother in the government or something?" Dean asked, returning to his makeshift workspace and picking up the knife he'd taken to sharpening for the past hour.

"In the government", Sherlock told him vaguely as he examined his new documents. His birth date was incorrect. "Is the government."

"Is the government?" asked Dean quizzically over the scraping sounds of his working hands, and the question went ignored because Sherlock had just tossed his documents aside and pulled out some of the clothes sent to him, letting out a loud groan of disgust.

"I'm meant to wear _this_?" He held up a grey, cotton t-shirt and tossed it over his shoulder, pulling out faded jeans.

"What did you want – ball gowns?"

Sherlock gave Dean's amused stare a withering glare. It only seemed to amuse him further, and that only worked to incense Sherlock further. He flung the bag to the corner of the bed where it bounced softly, and flopped down on it, sheet sliding off a hip and down one thigh in blatant immodesty.

"Plebian", he huffed, feeling the other man's lingering, appreciative gaze on himself. He counted to three seconds, getting distracted from his vexation, before Dean set his blade down and got to his feet, turning away.

"Well get dressed, princess. We're going out."

* * *

From the row of parked cars glinting in the fading sunlight of near dusk, Sherlock could pick out with ease which one would be making the trip down to wherever they were headed. None of the others were a muscle car and extrapolating from what little he knew of Dean Winchester, he would never drive anything else. She was a '67 Chevy Impala, Kansas plates, and he pondered briefly why the car hadn't been replaced yet: the mileage couldn't be anything to boast of – mileage wasn't even so much a concern in the 1967 American car industry. She gleamed proudly, her sweeping fastback roofline shining a smooth black of having been pampered. Upon closer inspection, Sherlock found she'd been built up from scratch.

_Sentiment. _

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Dean approached him, bag swinging off a shoulder, his wallet still in one hand. "Come on, we'll be driving all night."

Sherlock followed him to the car. The door creaked as it opened, and the interior was unexpectedly fresh, black leather seats reclining slightly and comfortable under him as he threw his bag to the back seat. Dean did the same and started the engine, running one loving hand across the dashboard.

"Where to, then?" Sherlock asked, as they backed out of the lane and sped down the street.

"Kansas", Dean said shortly, checking the rearview.

"Home?"

This time there was no surprise, no sharp turn of head and narrowed eyes. Sherlock was thankful for that – car crashes were the most pedestrian way of death. He had no taste for it.

"You could say that", Dean gave a rueful laugh. He skipped a red light. John would never do that. "Yours in London?"

Sherlock thought of 221B, the dust on the floor, the blood on the countertop, hollow and dreary. He thought of John again. His chest did an uncomfortable, clenching motion, as though his heart was trying to tug itself apart.

"You could say that", he echoed and turned to look out of the window, watching the orange tinged clouds move slowly over the swollen, reddening sun hanging low towards the horizon. Dean seemed to sense the conversation was over and he turned on the cassette player to a gyrating noise. Soon he was singing along and Sherlock continually flinched and grimaced at the steady stream of drivel played over and over. He turned it down and Dean glared at him, but let it slide.

It was midnight before either of them spoke again, both wide awake. Sherlock, bored of flicking through the odd, old journal, had wanted a smoke. Dean had wanted food. They stopped for a total of five minutes, two empty bladders, a pack of cigarettes and a wide array of junk food at hand, and were already speeding down the roads, past the 24 hour diners and flea motels at the edge of town again. Sherlock had insisted he wanted to smoke first – Dean had told him he could smoke in the car.

"What's the rush?" He inquired, blowing the heavenly swirl of smoke out of his lungs through the window and taking another long drag, watching the moon glide along with them. Dean tossed a folded newspaper onto his lap.

"People missing one after another from night clubs, reported a week ago. And now there are animal attacks."

Sherlock scanned the article. The humid night air blowing in through the open window and playing with his hair was warm, but Sherlock felt a strange chill run down his spine. He tossed the newspaper on to the dashboard.

"More Vampires." It wasn't a question.

Dean grunted. "Sooner we're there, sooner we can catch and behead these sons of bitches."

Sherlock eyed him thoughtfully while his cigarette burned to the filter. He flicked it out.

"You're running from sentiment. That's what you're running from." Dean turned to look at him briefly before turning back to the road, face set and resolute in the pale light. "You lost someone close to you."

That strange, bitter laugh was back again, grating against Sherlock's skin, painful to hear.

"You're lonely. So lonely that you'll pick up a stranger you know nothing about and take them to your work with you." He thought about John again, chasing a cab through London together. The rest of his words got stuck in his throat. He swallowed.

They sat in silence for a while before Dean startled him out of his stupor with a low, "So are you."

Sherlock turned to look at him again. His lips were drawn down in a sad, resigned frown and he was determinedly looking at the streets, not meeting Sherlock's gaze. "You lost someone too. I can see it, every time you think about them. I know what it's like, man. The worst kind of shit the world can give you. The worst."

He cleared his throat. Sherlock continued to stare at him, mind buzzing blankly at his observation and compassionate green eyes finally met his own, holding his gaze lightly for a second, crinkling at the corners with a long seated grief.

He turned back to the road. "Try to get some sleep, cheekbones."

* * *

_Hey guys. I'm so sorry this update took to lon Please please leave your thoughts on this chapter. _


	5. The trap

By the time dawn began breaking the dark Sherlock had long since fallen asleep out of boredom into a peculiar dream with a woman he'd never seen before. She stood at the doorway of what he recognized as his childhood home in the country and, as he stood watching, morphed into his mother. A sharp, prickling sensation shot up his left arm and he awoke with a start to find himself tucked into the corner of his seat, head resting against the half open window, disoriented and discomfited. He hadn't thought about Mummy in months.

"Sleep well?" asked a tired voice. Dean was still driving, and the strain around his eyes and the lack of crumples on his shirt said they'd been moving while Sherlock slept. Dean's side of the window was completely open and the cold morning breeze stung at Sherlock's face, pulling him brusquely out of his sleepy daze.

"Yes, thank you", Sherlock replied, rubbing a crick in his neck from the awkward positioning. His stomach growled and he winced. The rigid control over his transport had taken two decades to build; John had taken it away in three measly years.

John had taken all of him in three measly years.

He reached for a cigarette. Dean threatened death should he get ashes on the seats and proceeded to calmly offered a burger. It was cold and soggy and Sherlock hated it, but wolfed it down anyway.

They spent the day in each other's thankfully silent and frankly miserable company. Dean, his random bursts of singing nonwithstanding – was too preoccupied to talk, and Sherlock was widely grateful for it. He sat back with the window rolled all the way down now, and the wind whipped against his face and threw back his hair, the faint smell of sunlight on concrete mingled with heavy smoke ever present against his nostrils. He'd burned through the entire pack of cigarettes, carefully flicking ash out the window, through the evening and the approaching night while assiduously committing new information to memory. John would have thrown a fit.

The thought made him unreasonably angry.

It was dark once more when Dean was tugging him out of his head, leaning in through one open door to pull at his arm. He'd parked them outside another motel. Sherlock groaned his disapproval and went ignored, so he shouldered his bag and stomped resignedly after the man, watching him pull out his tattered leather wallet out of his back pocket.

"That's a terrible place to keep your wallet", he quipped.

"Fuck off", Dean replied sweetly.

And so he did, wandering off to lurk near a diner entrance while Dean strode off to book them rooms for whatever duration they would remain in this strange, quiet place. A place which, as it suddenly occurred to Sherlock, was far too quiet for what should have been a busy Friday evening. By the look of the handle on the door of the diner, it ought to have been bursting with activity. Sherlock peered in and saw none but one lone man slumped atop the counter – boneless, as though asleep. No clinking of plates and forks and cups, no buzz of conversation, no lingering smell of coffee – only the vague sounds of an untuned radio.

He stepped back out to look were no other cars parks besides the impala, and the lack of tracks on the concrete suggested there hadn't been cars here in days. In fact, it suggested almost no human movement at all. Suspicion rising, he walked past the small buildings and around a bend to the gas station, where a car stood with its hood up, a man bent over the engine.

A prickling sensation rose at the back of his neck.

There were things inexplicably strange about the man, who remained, as Sherlock looked, bent over the engine, unmoving and leaning on his hands. The crumpled clothing suggested it hadn't been changed out of in more than three days, the back of his head was rumpled and dirty – but even more strangely, his feet were twisted. Twisted in such an imperceptible manner that anyone but Sherlock wouldn't even have seen it, but twisted it was nonetheless – as though both his ankles had been violently broken and shoved back into place.

Sherlock watched with sudden trepidation as the man stiffened and straightened up. His neck, same as his ankles, was distorted unnaturally, as though having had been snapped.

_No one could have survived that._

And even before the creature could finish turning, Sherlock, with a sudden grip of instinctual self-preservation, was whirling around and belting around the corner, heart pounding with fear and adrenaline. A snarl issued from somewhere behind him and he was being chased, the monster at his heels faster than a man with broken ankles should have been able to manage.

He tried to call for Dean as he hurled himself past the buildings that littered the area, the man hot at his heels, but all that escaped was a strangled scream as an arm closed around his throat – pressing an iron weight into his neck. He kicked with his heels in vain and caught one broken bone in a vicious but completely ineffective strike. His attacker, only further incensed and snarling, , dragged him around and squeezed even harder, making his ears roar. He gasped, and flailed, fingers coming up to try and pry the death grip away, throat and lungs burning, eyes beginning to water. Trashing, he tried to call out for Dean again, and this time all that came out was a strained gasp of _"Deanng_".

"_Please", _he thought, desperately dizzy. "_Please."_

His lungs were contracting painfully under pressure, chest feeling as though it were about to explode. Sherlock felt himself begin to grow limp, pulse slowing down. His body would shut down soon.

And all of a sudden, it was over.

He fell to the ground and curled up in agony, gagging and reeling as a rush of cold air sped into his lungs, hitting him forcefully with the sweet relief of oxygen. He floundered and gasped as his body tried to take in too much air and exhale at the same time. Somewhere above him, Dean was yelling.

By the time he could breathe normally and his brain kicked back into hazy function, Dean was keeling beside him, uncertainly rubbing his back. It wasn't of any physical help, but a soothing gesture even so, and Sherlock was grateful for it. He sat up and winced.

"Easy", Dean said, reaching out to steady him before rising and helping him to his feet and examining the bruises that must have formed on his throat while Sherlock fought waves of dizziness. He turned to see his attacker lying not far from them.

"You okay?" Dean inquired. He clutched the dagger, bloody now, limply in one hand.

"I'm fine", Sherlock croaked." What was that?"

"Demon", Dean answered simply and reached out for his arm. "C'mon, lets get out of here."

He let himself be led to where the impala waited, ignoring the sharp pain that had risen, once again, up his left arm.


End file.
